


Laughter

by cocoacremeandgays



Series: Dirk's Not-So-Alphabetical Alphabet [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Autism Spectrum Disorder, Autistic! Dirk, Car rides, Dave and Dirk get into a bit of a tussle, Dave is also really moody, Dave likes dogs, Dave plays softball still, Echolalia, Gen, Good times, I don't know why Nanna has a dog, Playful fights, Stimming, Weird Laughter, but it's a new headcanon of mine apparently, cuteness, sensory processing disorder, weighted blankets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 12:45:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7508803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoacremeandgays/pseuds/cocoacremeandgays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't like talking to people, therefor, you don't want to talk to people. That's where you and Dave differ highly- he constantly goes up to people he doesn't know, and tries to befriend them. You find that dangerous, because Bro and David have spoken to you an odd amount of times about "stranger danger," which means you shouldn't talk to people you don't know or don't trust, and you shouldn't follow people into big white vans with darkened windows and the painted black words, "FREE CANDY" on the side.</p>
<p>Which is stupid, you don't like candy, why would you even talk to them in the first place, let alone follow them.</p>
<p>((Alternatively known as: Bro, Dirk, and Dave get caught outside by a new neighbor who has a few questions. While Bro answers, Dirk and Dave get into a tussle, and Dirk comments on this new neighbor lady's laugh.))</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laughter

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, look, a third one of these things!  
> Just for reference, Dirk and Dave are about ten years old here, but you can view them as old or young as you want to.  
> Constructive criticism and feedback is always appreciated. :)   
> Onto the story.

"Dirk, quit touching me, your personal space issues don't need to be acted on," Dave bats your hands away from his arm, of which you had needlessly been gripping the sleeve of. You can't help the fact that you want to touch him, you just want to touch him, so you keep touching him. Your tactile and sensory needs have yet to be properly fulfilled. "Seriously, bro, stop it."

You whine, pulling your hands away from your brother reluctantly. You scoot into the left corner of the back seat of Bro's red pickup truck. You can see his brows quirk in a gentle manner in the rear view mirror. You still want to be close to Dave, but you know that you aren't allowed to. 

"Quit flapping your hands, man, it's weird," Dave says.

"Shut it, kid, it's good for 'im," Bro pipes up, the car slowing down as he pulls to a rapid-changing stop light. You find it funny that you hadn't even noticed that you had started flapping your hands, even though you were the one taking part in the action. You guess it's just become that much of a second nature.

"It's still weird," Dave groaned, scooting foreword and pressing his cheek against the back of the headrest of the passenger's seat. You think you might have heard it referenced to as a "shotgun", though you're pretty sure that it isn't a shotgun. You can't fire it, as far as you know. "Why can't he be normal for once?"

This ticked Bro off quite a bit. "Dave, knock it off!" Bro snapped, hitting the gas and turning left and down the small hill. You don't really enjoy the fact that you live down a hill, because whenever you go down it, it makes your stomach drop unceremoniously, which is incredibly distressing. Bro slows down and merges right, going up the next hill of the entry to your neighborhood.

To calm yourself down, you watch the row of trees leading up the left side of your neighborhood pass slowly behind you, and you count all twelve of them. You do this every time you enter and leave your neighborhood, whether you're walking, or on a bike ride, or being driven in a car. It used to take you a while to count all of the trees, but now you have memorized all of the trees, what they look like, how tall they used to be. You used to be a slow counter, especially when the figures of the trees weren't defined enough, and the greens and oranges and yellows and browns of all of the leaves blend together.

The wooden house immediately behind the trees catches your attention, and its garden enamors you. You've seen this house many times, but you've never really looked at it, which not only confuses you, but makes you feel like you might start crying, which is equally as confusing. So, maybe you're just incredibly confused. Whatever the reason, it really is rather beautiful. You think about it as you make a small noise. The color of the house is a lighter, red-brown chocolate-y color, and you really like it. A lot. You want to keep looking at it, but Bro just keeps driving up the hill to your house. You squeal at the sight of the color blurring with the trees around it and Dave makes (what you think is) a groaning noise.

"Dirk, stop," Dave says, and you're pretty sure he's addressing you, but you don't say anything. You really don't want to talk to him right now, he's being a little rude. "Jeez". Even if his softball team lost this time around, doesn't mean that he can be rude to everyone else. There are no excuses for his type of behavior, and you whine, wrapping your arms around the drivers seat and touching Bro. Oh, wow, that really helps. You like that. How had you not thought of doing this before now? He's so warm, Bro is, you really, really like it.

"Dirk, not righ'now. Hugs later. Take your hands off."

You don't reply, and you don't take your hands off. Neither of those potential options seem very ideal to you, as you'd much rather keep your hands on Bro. His body heat seems almost unnatural to you, and you like the fact that he's so warm, even if the fact of the matter is that everyone's that warm. If you sit on your hands, you'll warm them up, and you'll be equally as confused as you are right now, as your hands rest on Bro's sides.

"Dirk," Bro repeats in an off tone. You don't like that tone. You only whine. "Hands off. I know ya like touchin', but I'm drivin'. Not righ'now."

You still don't move your hands.

You suppose that Bro gives up after that, because he doesn't say anything further, even though he gives off this air that he feels bad about something. You don't know how you picked that up, because he's not facing you, and that means you can't read his facial expression- which wouldn't help anyway. You're the weird twin, as Dave words it, because you can't tell the difference between looks of bemusement and amusement. They look the same to you. A smiley face looks nothing like a "smiley face," it just looks like a circle, with dots for "eyes," and a "u" shape for a "mouth." You don't see it, nor do you want to see it, because you feel that it might frighten you.

Bro parks in the driveway to the house you, Dave, Dirk, and David live in relatively comfortably, and you bite the inside of your cheek as you fight off the urge to scream. You don't know why you want to scream, you just really want to scream. It's an insatiable need. You really want to scream. The fabric of Bro's shirt seems to register to you now, and you feel the material under your fingers. It's really bumpy and uneven, and you can feel every individual thread and every individual crease, and it hurts so so bad. The urge to scream comes back, stronger and harder and in a more persistent way. This time, though, you don't evade the urge.

"Wha- what's goin' on? Dave, why on god's green earth is Dirk screamin'?" Bro asks, unbuckling his seat belt quickly.

"I don't know!" Dave replies loudly, huffing. You hear the car door open and you stop screaming, taking your hands off of Bro's shirt and gripping your own hands tightly to get rid of the extra feeling of the fabric on your hands. It's "phantom", and you don't like it. You rub your hands together a few times. That's better. Why didn't you do that before? That doesn't make any sense to you. You're the next to get out of the car, and Bro's out shortly after you, kneeling down in front of you and checking you over "head to toe". You don't know why.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, kid." Bro shakes his head, dusts off your shoulders roughly. You squeal, not only because he was being rough and not needlessly gentle, but because he said a bad word that David never lets anyone say around you or Dave. "Don't tell David I said that."

"Don't tell David I said that." You repeat automatically.

"Tha's right, kid. Don't tell David. It's a secret, yeah?" No. You don't like secrets. You're gonna tell David now. You ball your hands into fists and pat Bro on the shoulder with the back of your hand, because you can't feel the fabric too well that way, and it's better that you don't feel it again with your palms. You do, however, want to rub your face on his shirt. Which doesn't make sense, because you hate the way his shirt feels on your palms- why would your face be any different? Your face is sensitive, too. That's stupid to do.

You do it anyway, pressing your right cheek up against Bro's chest and rubbing your face against the fabric of his shirt. You're surprised when it doesn't hurt like it had before, when your palms were against the fabric. You experiment, rubbing your cheek harder against his chest, but it doesn't accomplish much in order to achieve answer to your growing hypothesis. Apparently, as you have concluded, Bro's shirt doesn't feel the same on your face as it does on your hands. Maybe it's some sort of psychosomatic thing? You doubt it, but it's possible.

You take a chance, and one stupid decision later, you're rubbing his shirt again with your left palm. It fucking burns. You won't tell David you said that. You guess you won't tell David that Bro said that, either, because if you said it and don't want David to know so you don't get in trouble, then why would you tell David that Bro said it? You don't want Bro to get into trouble. You probably wouldn't have the guts to go up to David, anyway, even if you do trust him. You probably wouldn't talk to him voluntarily (be the one to initiate the conversation) for the rest of the day. You probably won't initiate conversation with anyone, unless you really want to, because otherwise, you just don't see the point. 

Why initiate conversation if it doesn't mean anything to talk to them in the first place? That's why you don't say "Hello," to people. Or, "How was your day?" because you just don't care about their day. If you want to ask someone what their favorite color is because of some "dumb" survey you have to conduct for your therapist, you walk up to them, and ask, "What's your favorite color?" You don't say, "Hi, my name is Dirk, how's your day?" and lead a whole conversation with them only to get one word out of them. It's either "blue," or "pink," or "red," and then you're done, and it's quick and simple like that. Why would you over complicate things? 

You don't like talking to people, therefor, you don't want to talk to people. That's where you and Dave differ highly- he constantly goes up to people he doesn't know, and tries to befriend them. You find that dangerous, because Bro and David have spoken to you an odd amount of times about "stranger danger," which means you shouldn't talk to people you don't know or don't trust, and you shouldn't follow people into big white vans with darkened windows and the painted black words, "FREE CANDY" on the side.

Which is stupid, you don't like candy, why would you even talk to them in the first place, let alone follow them. The very notion of such an idea is idiotic, and you aren't an idiot. You're not an idiot, and you're not weird, you're autistic (that's what David and the doctors told you, anyway. You could have been misdiagnosed, or something. Maybe you have a brain tumor. That wouldn't add up to any of this, though).

"Hi there! I'm sorry, we're new to this neighborhood: could you help us out?" That woman's voice really ticks you off, and you scream to get the "residual" sound of her tone out of your mind. You block it out as well as you can, until you realize you're not screaming anymore. You also realize that Bro has moved your hands, both of them, to your ears.

You rub your earlobes between your fingers, and the smooth, dry skin that resides there calms you down immensely. You stare at the woman's shoes, and notice she has a dog with her. Dave is petting the dog, being all friendly with it as it licks his face. Its golden fur catches in the drifting sunlight, and you think you like that color.

"Dave, quit pettin' that dog for two seconds and grab the blanket." Bro is talking about the weighted one, the one that you bring everywhere in case of some such emergency in which a meltdown might be inevitable if you don't get some sort of satisfactory relief right that instant. Deep settled pressure throughout your entire torso is the best way to effectively ward off the bad, sick and heavy feeling that lingers in your chest, so it's no surprise that Bro wants Dave to grab it. You could go grab it, though, you don't want Dave to stop petting the dog if he doesn't want to. "Sorry about that. Uh, yeah, what do you need?" 

"We moved in today, and I can't help but notice that there's no mailboxes at the end of the driveways?" The woman explains to Bro, and you pull yourself away from Bro's grip. Your fingers keep up with your ministrations, playing with your earlobe calmly, as you make your way to the trunk of Bro's car. "Could you tell us where the mailboxes are?"

"Ah, yeah, the mailboxes are in a cluster righ' over there." You imagine that Bro has pointed them in the right direction, and you reach out to open the trunk. Dave has the same idea, however, and he does the exact same thing you were going to do, but didn't get a chance to do, because Dave beat you to it. That doesn't sit well with you, so you jab him with your elbow. He jabs you back.

"Oh, thank you. Do we have to go some place to get the keys to the mailbox, or do we already have the keys in the house, do you think?" The woman is still asking about mailboxes, and with this situation coming undone, so do you and Dave. The two of you are still in some sort of rivalry, jabbing each other in the ribs as you both try and grab the weighted blanket at the same time. When you reach foreword, Dave bats your hand away and jabs your ribs, and when he reaches foreword, you only reciprocate.

"Well, when we moved in, the keys were sittin' on the table along with a note, but if you can't find the keys, I'd suggest headin' over to the post office to see if you can resolve the problem that way." Dave grunts as you nudge him again, tuning out Bro and this woman's conversation well enough to purely focus on how to get to that blanket before Dave does. It strikes you that this might be some sort of ruse, or another type of game of Dave's. You need a strategy. You "take a step back to look at this situation from all angles" and think. You don't literally take a step back and look at this situation from all angles, but Dave told you that's something people do as a figure of speech, to gather their thoughts. You've personally never heard of such a thing, but then again, "you've practically lived under a rock your entire life". Dave tells you that's a fancier way to say you're sheltered and ignorant. You're neither of those things.

"Ah, thank you very much!" The woman sounds "cheerful". You think of a strategy, and hug Dave tightly, pressing your right cheek against his left shoulder. Got him now, the "son of a bitch". You don't like using that one, even though the word "bitch" is really nice to listen to and say. You don't know why, but it just sounds really nice. Needless to say, Dave groans and tries to shove you off with his operable hand (the one not being squeezed against his side in a "death grip"). You don't let go, even as he pushes against your face with his palm. "... Say, are they okay?"

"Uh--?" You bite Dave's wrist when it gets too close to your mouth, and he yelps, yanking his right arm away from you and almost falling to the ground. You almost fall with him, but you keep him upright, making a little "Rawr" noise under your breath, even though it's silly and asinine and fatuous to you. It makes Dave laugh quietly, though, so you think you did something right. You definitely did right with the hug, because it distracted him long enough for you to get your blanket out of the trunk, and you're suddenly feeling really proud of yourself as the heavy material falls into your arms. You've pulled away by now, obviously, and you're running around the driveway as you hoist the thing around you like a robe, tugging it tight. It's very nice, and you squeal. Your gaze meets Bro's mouth, and it pulls into an expression of furrowed brows and taught lips, a "confused" expression. "... Yeah, they're fine."

"Boys will be boys, hmm? I have a son of my own at home," The woman says, giving a little "giggle". "Well, thank you very much, mister..."

The woman trails off, and you glance upwards just enough to see her blue-finger-nailed hand outstretch towards Bro, and Bro takes her hand within his own. Her hand is dainty and tiny, compared to his hearty, well-worked hands. You like Bro's hands much better than her's. Your eyes trail down after you notice him give her hand a good shake. You hate witnessing handshakes. It makes you uncomfortable, because the whole shaking-hand-part makes you antsy. Knowing someone else could be controlling a movement in a part of your body makes you really uncomfortable. "Strider," Bro speaks. "Derrick Strider."

"Ah! Janet Crocker," the woman replies. You know you're going to forget her name if you try to remember it, so you let it sink in as her official title, and then pay no further mind to it. You walk over to Bro and press your face into his side, your cheek pressing against his shirt. He pats the top of your head with his left hand, and you feel him shift as he sets his right hand back down by his side. "Pleasure meeting you. Well, I'm afraid I must be heading off now. Thank you again for your help, I'll see you around."

"Take care," Bro replies, in that voice that reminds you of your business voice. It's higher than he usually speaks, but that's because he speaks in a really gruff tone a majority of the time he ever tends to speak. You hear that woman (Janet, was that her name?) walking off, the click of her heels down the pavement of your driveway actually rather soothing, compared to some noises that you've heard. Like her voice. You don't like her voice. It's soft, but a little nasal. You don't like that quality to her voice.

Dave huffs loudly in the background, saying something exasperatedly about how he wanted to pet the dog more, especially considering you had gone ahead and tried to get the weighted blanket yourself, rather than him get it quickly. It was something that Dave actually seemed to be rather frazzled about, now that you think about it. The car's trunk door shuts with a loud thud and a click. You squeal in response to its noise, and Dave's groan is something you respond to with equal enthusiasm (he seemed to be enthusiastic, that sounded like his tone of voice) with your own groan.

"The two of ya are gonna be the death a me, I hope y'all know that," Bro gruffs, messing your hair up roughly. That calms you down, though, so it's okay. You didn't even know you were starting to get worked up in the first place, which is interesting to you. How did Bro understand you were feeling gross before you even understood that you were even remotely close to feeling gross? Can he read your mind? No, he can't do that, that's illogical and it isn't feasible at all. You push the thought away, and-

A high pitched, throaty hoot echoes its way across the neighborhood, and you recognize that voice to be the one belonging to that woman who had been speaking to Bro about a minute or so ago. You're not quite sure exactly how long ago she was standing, just in front of the two of you, speaking about the mailboxes and her son, but you know you'll never forget her tone of voice. Nasal and soft. No thank you.

Her high pitched throaty hoot, however, echoes again, and it seems that this might actually be a laugh. A rather owl-like laugh, apparently, but a laugh nonetheless. You don't really understand how something of such a caliber could be counted as a laugh, but you decide you might as well try to pretend to understand it. The, 'Hoo-Hoo-Hoo' of it mostly over, you turn to face Bro, and stare at his face. Not his eyes, because they're covered in shades, and your own are covered in shades, but at his entire face. You study the pointed jaw and the chiseled facial features that he's got, and the bit of stubble on his chin, that tickles whenever he kisses your forehead. You examine the gentle dotting of freckles on his nose, and it reminds you of the rare times that you see snow. You really like snow, actually, even if it is incredibly cold. It's refreshing, in a way, and that makes you happy. You like snow angels, too, and you enjoy building tiny snow men with the nearly infinitesimal amount of the substance, and if there's enough, Dave builds them an entire town. A snow town, kind of. You don't understand why you like building snow men, but you know that you really enjoy it- just as you really enjoy taking things apart and putting them back together, like the television remote, even though Bro gets "angry" at you and tells you not to do that, because "ya might fuck somethin' up". You just know you enjoy snow, and the tiny men that you create with your hands, and you suppose that's enough out of the bargain of comfort and humor for you.

"Well, that's something you don't hear every day," you say, back on track mentally with that lady's laughter.

The next thing you know, Dave's doubled over, standing in the driveway with bent knees, and laughing "his ass off", while Bro tells you that what you said wasn't very nice, and you shouldn't say that again, young man. You know he's serious when he says, "Young man," but you can't bring yourself to figure out how exactly it means he's being serious. He's blowing this out of proportion, you decide, and help Dave carry his softball paraphernalia inside the house.


End file.
